New Years Eves… the average man gets 77, give or take. Women get another 5 on average. Not sure I envy them that… I suppose this is true for every day of the year. On average, 77 December 31st, 77 October 23rds, 77 July 7ths… But only one actual birth day and one actual death day. It’s the dash between those two dates on your tombstone, the space and time between them, that you have to work with… to play with… to really live Life.
We just read a study that suggests that the earlier a person retires, the longer they live. For instance, the study showed that a person who retires at 50, on average, will live to age 86, another 36 years. In contrast, a person who retires at age 65 lives only another 2 years. Of course, statistics can be used to prove anything, but this study begs the question “If a person never worked, would they live forever?” Still, there is something here to consider.
On September 15, 2007 (one of those once in a lifetime days for me… or is it?) I retired from the work-a-day world after 35 years in the trenches. Environmental engineer, sewerage treatment plant operator, high school teacher, paper mill supervisor, salesman, personnel manager, government affairs specialist… It was quite a ride, not a planned career path in the least. More of a stream of opportunities approach. The fun parts were a pleasant dream. And, of course, there were nightmares (best forgotten). By October, my wife and best friend of 32 years and I had sold our home of 18 years, bought a little touring van and hit the road.
It has been an extraordinary year and a half. The economic meltdown of 2008 has introduced a certain level of uncertainty to our future plans (to say the least), but NOBODY called that one, so we can only hang on for now and go with the flow… the flow, that space and time between DOB and DOD, abbreviations used by life insurance companies and coroners … the flow that has beached us for the last few months on a wonderful, little backwater island off the coast of Georgia.
Saint Simons Island has a unique history. A military outpost from the earliest days of European expansionism, the British and the Spanish fought a decisive engagement in 1774 in the Battle of Bloody Marsh. It was the furthest north the Spanish were to ever venture, from there a slow retreat over the next 60 years, pushed south of the Rio Grand in Texas, out of Florida, Arizona, New Mexico and California. Cotton became the cash crop on Saint Simons and thousands of slaves were imported to work the plantations until 1864. Following the Civil War, the former slaves were issued land grants on the Island and direct descendants of those people live here today.
Our rented house is on the cusp of the Island’s culture. On one side of Cumming’s Lane are beach houses, single story structures painted bright colors within walking distance of East Beach. On the other side of the one lane road, beneath the Live Oaks and the jungle of green vegetation and creeping vines, are black families ranging from a recluse, 80 year old woman, to young men in pimped out cars and sound systems that vibrate you out of bed at midnight, to biracial families with lots of beautiful little children. The smell of smoke and of barbecue pervades the neighborhood. Outside burning/cooking is a tradition… a religion.
For us, this New Year’s Eve was anything but typical. From our past experiences, December 31st was usually snowy and frigid, typically spent skiing as a family and celebrating our son’s birthdays. This year we walked the beach, listened to the waves and the bell buoys off the shipping channel and got dressed for an evening of dancing under the Live Oaks at Bennie’s Red Barn.
The Red Barn is located on Frederica Drive, up island from our place in “the Village”. It's a large, rustic, establishment … it’s, well…barn-like to state the obvious with a distinct history of its own. In the 50’s and 60’s a dress code was strictly enforced. Men wore jackets and ties, provided at the door if you were without. The wait staff, all black, wore white jackets… genuine, formal Southern tradition.
Today, ¾ of the “barn” is reserved as a restaurant, tables centered around a huge stone fireplace taking up all of one wall. The remaining ¼ is accessed from the restaurant through sliding barn doors and consists of a large worn, wooden dance floor, a stage runs across the front wall and a long bar along the back wall. The “club” continues outside onto a large open air deck under lighted Live Oaks with a huge metal caldron where a fire is kept and oysters are roasted. A second circular outside bar surrounds one of the majestic trees. The scene is magical; the warmth of the fire and the smell of roasting oysters, sounds of people dancing to R&B and the ethereal sight of smoke drifting through moss laden oaks.
The crowd evolved as the evening progressed. Doctors, lawyers, judges and real estate developers in whimsical, colored bow ties and tuxes were slowly outnumbered by young people in alligator boots with tight jeans and silk shirts. By midnight, the Red Barn was literally rocking up and down as people packed the dance floor and, with a collective sign of relief, kissed and hugged in yet another new year.
The barn doors slid open to the evening finale, a Southern breakfast buffet of smoked sausage, baked eggs with greens, cheese grits and biscuits all liberally doused with hot sauce.
New Years Eve, the average man gets 77, give or take… this one was special.
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